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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692644">staring at the sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetsoflove/pseuds/planetsoflove'>planetsoflove</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>my place is not deliberate [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Chicken Girls (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Car Accidents, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, TECHNICALLY this is an au-canon divergence, Unhealthy Relationships, but fuck that! this is how it should have happened! and i'm digging my heels in, wouldn't recommend reading if you like spike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:40:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692644</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetsoflove/pseuds/planetsoflove</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Birdie hadn't thought that being on the road with Spike would be this intense. She'll try to be nicer. </p><p>or:</p><p>An exploration of what happened when Birdie and Spike were on the road in season 3. Fits canon until the last scene.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>birdie/spike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>my place is not deliberate [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130090</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>staring at the sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Alright, I tagged this a bit heavily just in case. I've wanted to write something like this for a while, because I was really unhappy with the way a lot of this plotline was done. Birdie and Spike did not have a healthy relationship. I also wish that more of Birdie's mental state was explored, since she went through some really traumatic stuff. You're free to disagree, and I was probably a bit excessive in the tagging, but I wanted to be extra careful. Take care. Leave a comment with your thoughts or hit me up on tumblr @ ellierobbie.tumblr.com</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They make it to Seattle the first night. Spike parks the car on some sidestreet Birdie doesn’t care to look at the name of and hops out. He fixes his jacket. Birdie runs a hand through her hair. Seattle. It was the first major city they had stopped in since leaving Attaway, and the first time Birdie had been this far up the coast. A breeze goes through the city. She wishes she had warmer pants on, but she was still wearing the skirt and fishnets they had left in. She’ll change when they get a chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opens the car door and steps out. She wasn’t sure exactly what time it was, both of them leaving their phones behind in case anyone tried to follow, but it had to be nearing midnight</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hungry?” Spike asks, as he sways over to the passenger side of the car. He throws an arm around her shoulder and leads her down the road. “There’s a McDonald’s down the corner that we passed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie nods, trusting Spike knows where he’s going. She holds her chin up as he pushes through the few people left on the street at this hour. The last time she was in a city was LA. It had been for a dance competition in middle school, years ago. Rooney and her were co-captains, and they walked around like they owned the place. People moved out of their way when they walked down the halls. Birdie straightens her back. People do that for her and Spike, too, if they know what’s good for them. They were Birdie and Spike and they had gotten out. They could do anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike swings open the door to McDonalds. He waves her inside and grins, like he’s won the lottery. He tugs on her wrist and pulls her closer to him as they stand in line. Birdie hadn’t realized how hungry she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike pays with the wad of cash they had piled together before leaving, half his and half hers, from various jobs and odd ends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit at a table near the back. They eat and they laugh, high on their newfound freedom. Spike pushes her hair behind her ear and kisses her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie doesn’t think she’s ever been happier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should be able to hit Chicago before Saturday,” Birdie announces. She draws a red line on the paper map in front of her. “And maybe we can stay there for a few days.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike accelerates the car. “Stay in Chicago?” Birdie nods. The highway scenery goes past in a yellow blur. According to the last exit, they were in the middle of Montana. “Why would we do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never been before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike laughs. “So?” Birdie looks back down at the map. They’d already travelled through a lot of the Northwest, and she had barely seen anything. When she had told Spike that she wanted to get out of Attaway, she had meant that she wanted to go somewhere else, not just see different highways. Spike drums his fingers against the wheel. He sighs. The car speeds up again. “Birdie, we don’t have the money or the time to stop for a few days. We can’t risk it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just thought you would want a break from driving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a break in Chicago, spend more money than we have just so I can take a nap?” He shakes his head. “You’re not thinking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike’s jaw is tight. Birdie looks down at the map. She didn’t mean to upset him. She was sure it would be fine. Spike was right. Besides, it’s not like she’d be here if not for him. It’s not like she was old enough to drive. It’s not like she thought of leaving Attaway on her own. She reaches across the console and grabs his right hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” She says, running her thumb across his knuckles. Spike smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iowa is so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> flat. She’s never seen so much space. They’ve been driving for hours in a landscape that doesn’t seem to change. Birdie has never seen so much corn. She’s sure the people who live here love it, but the fact that they all live too far away from each other to even walk to school or a friend’s house seems odd. She couldn’t imagine growing up in Attaway without Rooney being two streets over. Maybe she never would have been friends with Rooney at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small motel appears in the distance on the right. Spike had talked to a trucker at the last gas station they’d stopped at for a recommendation for a cheap place. They’re in the middle of nowhere, but Spike thought they needed to keep saving money. He’d rather not stop at all. He was getting sick of doing the driving though, Birdie could tell. He’s usually a bit clipped when he talks to her, and she’s doing her best to make the driving easier on him. She wishes she could drive, at the very least so he could take a break. She felt so bad for not being able to help. If she could drive, maybe they could have seen Chicago. Or maybe they’d be in New York by now. That’s what Spike thinks, at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike pulls into the parking lot. “Stay here,” He orders, twisting the key out of the ignition. The driver’s door slams behind him. Birdie really hoped it was as cheap as the trucker had told them. She would kill to sleep in a real bed again and to take a hot shower. There were only so many times she could brush her teeth in the bathroom of a gas station. She inspects the car. They had managed to keep it clean. Spike cared about his car a lot. She could clean it today. Steal some supplies from the housekeepers and give the windows a shine. Yes. He would like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bells above the door to the front office jingle. Spike dangles a golden key between his fingers. She opens the car door and grabs her duffel bag from the backseat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is small, but it’ll do. Spike throws himself down on the bed. There’s a shoddy flatscreen sitting on a table. It flickers twice when Birdie presses it on, but after a moment the local news station pops up. They’re doing a story on Thanksgiving celebrations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huh. It was almost Thanksgiving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie had stopped counting how many days they had been on the road a while ago, but she didn’t think it was already Thanksgiving. What was everyone doing? Would her Mom go to Texas to see TK? Was Rooney celebrating with Quinn, or were they at each other’s throats over Hamilton again? Birdie rolled her eyes thinking about it. She’s still not sure why Rooney kept him hanging around for as long as she did. A lot of things Rooney did started to confuse her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we have money for food? Maybe we should get some things while we’re here.” Birdie suggests. Spike stares at the ceiling. If she was lucky, maybe she could convince him to buy a pizza, or something else that was warm. They passed a gas station a few minutes before pulling into the parking lot. Maybe they had the dollar slices. She would kill for one of those. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m tired. I don’t want to drive again. Plus, you’re running low on money.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie turns to face him. “I thought we were splitting the money?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up on the bed. “We’re splitting the costs.” He unties his boots and rips them off. There’s a flash of heat in his eyes. Birdie steps back. “I’m the one who gets us places. You wouldn’t be here without me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie scoffs. Spike snaps his head up at her. She grabs the side of the table the television sits on. Spike stands up. “Without me, you’d still be in Attaway. With your parents and your friends who don’t care.” He takes another step towards her, grabbing her chin and turning her head up to look at him. “You’re lucky I love you enough to bring you along.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hold each other’s gaze. His hand rests on her neck. The news anchor goes on behind them about the incoming cold front. Birdie wonders if it’s still warm in Attaway.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re down to their last twenty dollars when Spike decides to turn back. They argue about it in the car. He speeds through Oklahoma as they shout, and Birdie cries, and Spike yells again. He loves her, she loves him, but they’re out of money and he needs to go back to Attaway and talk to his cousin. He’ll get more money and fix the car, and if Birdie is lucky enough she’ll get to stay with him. She just has to stop annoying him in between. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>New Mexico and Arizona blast past in two days. Birdie tries to make it up to Spike, but he just wants to sleep and drive. She wishes she had taken more money. She wishes she wasn’t so stupid. Everything in Attaway broke, and she couldn’t even hold it together on the road with her boyfriend. Stupid, stupid, stupid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sign that welcomes them to California and Birdie chokes on the air. Spike is trying to get back as soon as possible and hasn’t let his foot off the gas. The closer they get to Attaway the more Birdie knows that everything has changed and she’s alone, again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here’s how she remembers it: The road turns roughly a mile ahead of them. Birdie thinks they’re moving too fast. Spike won’t slow down. He snaps. Birdie presses her knees together and says she’s sorry. She doesn’t remember if they speed up or slow down. It doesn’t matter. They head into the turn and they’re moving too fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a loud crash and a moment of complete weightlessness and then she can’t hear anything at all. It replays like a song that she had refused to let TK skip, back when they used to share an MP3 player. He would complain, but he’d wait with her in their living room as the song played, and he would restart it for her. Again, again, again, until it’s imprinted into her brain. When she got sick of the music, TK would happily skip to the next one. Birdie wishes she could do that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s 15 years old and she’s going to die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she wakes up, her mom is there. She’s holding Birdie’s hand and she looks like she’s been crying. Birdie feels like she’s going to throw up. Even while she’s laying down, the room seems to spin and pull up underneath her. She groans. Her mom’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Birdie?” she asks, the word barely slipping past her lips. Birdie isn’t sure she heard it at first. She tries to move her mouth, but her tongue has been turned to cement, so all she does is move her mouth a bit. She feels awful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either way, the motion makes her mom’s face light up, and she gives Birdie’s hand a squeeze. She yells for a nurse. And before Birdie really knows what’s going on, someone is shining a light in her eyes and they’re asking her questions. What year is it? What’s your name? Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spike. Where was Spike? Did he get hurt too? Was he alive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought of Spike being dead, even if the last time they had spoken didn’t leave them on good terms, makes her body freeze. She becomes intensely aware of pain in her left arm, and turns to see a cast wrapping it. Someone touches her shoulder. She screams. People are crowding, and crowding, and her mom is pushing to the front again and someone grabs her other hand and she screams again, she screams for Spike, where is Spike where the fuck is Spike and stop touching me please stop touching me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t breathe. She needs to get out of here but she’s tangled up in wires when she tries to move. Someone else grabs her by the shoulders and tries to put her back into the bed but she screams again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next thing she knows, there’s a sharp pain, almost like a needle, going into her elbow, and then the world fades to black again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets discharged a few days later. Coming home feels like listening to an album that she doesn’t particularly like anymore, but still listens to habitually. Coming home feels like admitting that she’ll be stuck here forever. Stuck here, like her mom, who never got out, who’s stuck chasing after the figure of her father and the family she thought she had. There are lots of things Birdie thought she had, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walks out of the car by herself. For the most part, she’s back to normal. Pretty lucky, actually, one of the doctors had told her. Because when they found her there wasn’t anything left of the car but a crunched up piece of metal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, her arm is still broken, she’s probably going to have to repeat sophomore year, and her boyfriend left her for dead, but yeah. Lucky. Birdie barely processes it. Everything still aches, even though she’s sure she’s on enough pain medication to make any addict go crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets up to her room and opens the door. It’s mostly the way she left it, with the addition of a stack of cards on her nightstand. She recognizes Rooney’s handwriting first. She doesn’t touch it. She doesn’t want anything to do with it. She closes the door, and closes the blinds. It was too bright. She wants to go to bed and she wants everyone to leave her alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie sleeps for what feels like a minute. She doesn’t feel rested when she wakes up, and she’s so tired she doesn’t even want to get out of bed. She grabs her phone and headphones and listens to music. The doctors said to take it easy, and she will. She doesn’t look at any of her notifications. If they wanted to see her, they’d come. She turns up the music and the world fades out again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The days blend together when you’re sleeping through them, Birdie learns. It’s sometime past New Year’s Day when her door swings open without a knock. It’s Rooney. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie sits up, quickly, and feels heat rush to her face. Rooney holds her hands together, like she’s praying. Like she’s protecting herself from a ghost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Rooney says. She stays in the doorframe. Birdie looks her over. Rooney’s gotten taller, if possible. Other than that, she looks like herself. Birdie wonders if Rooney would say the same thing about her. Birdie braces herself for an argument. “How are you doing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie doesn’t move. She’s not sure what’s more surprising, the fact that Rooney cared enough to show up or that she’s here asking Birdie how she’s doing, like she can’t tell from the cast on her arm and the bruises underneath her eye where her face smacked against the door of the car and Rooney doesn’t even care, so why would she—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. She can’t breathe. Rooney surges towards her. Rooney is saying something, but It sounds like someone has thrown a knitted blanket over Birdie’s ears. Rooney doesn’t touch her, but she stays and she keeps talking even if Birdie still can’t entirely understand what she’s saying. Rooney is moving her hand slowly, up and down, up, down, and Birdie watches it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“1, 2, 3, 4, breathe in, okay, 1, 2, 3…” She’s counting. Oh. It’s nice to listen to. Birdie can feel air returning to her lungs. She watches Rooney’s hand again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie’s breath returns to normal. Rooney stays; she kneels by the side of Birdie’s bed. Birdie can feel a layer of sweat around her neck. Her hands are clammy and she wipes them on her sheets. They sit in silence. Birdie can’t look at Rooney. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Rooney says. Birdie raises an eyebrow. Rooney leans back on the floor and holds her knees to her chest. She lets out a long sigh.  “If I had paid more attention, maybe none of this would have— ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birdie rolls her eyes. “Rooney—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were going to die.” Rooney says. She looks Birdie in the eyes. “I thought you were going to die and I couldn’t stop thinking about how the last time we talked we were mad at each other. And I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words hang between them. All Birdie can hear is breathing in, and breathing out. She relaxes her shoulders. They stare at each other, and Birdie realizes they’re both crying.  They’re sitting and they’re crying, but they’re together. She reaches out her hand. Rooney intertwine their fingers. She’s going to be okay. She’s going to be just fine. </span>
</p>
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